Game Shows Touch Our Lives
by gaygypsybarmitzva4thedisabled
Summary: Derek is the Boy With the Bread. Stiles is kind of Katniss. Gerard is President Snow. (AKA the Hunger Games AU absolutely no one asked for.) Contains about as much adventure, romance, and reality TV as the original.


Okay, so obviously _Peter_ couldn't seduce _anyone_ because he was fucked up since the Games, and it would be a _dead giveaway_, as in, all the Hales would be _dead_. And Laura was a _girl_, so she had actual _non-kissy_ shit to do. And it obviously couldn't be Derek's _parents_, or any of the _kids_, so if it was gonna be _anyone_, it was gonna have to be Derek.

So there was Derek, fifteen years old, shivering in his too-thin clothes, trying to get _Kate_ fucking _Argent_ to notice him. To _fall_ for him. And he didn't know even what he was _doing_, he didn't even have a fucking _clue_, except Laura said "Give her the look. With the eyes. And the face," like Derek had _any idea what that meant. _But _everyone else _seemed sure it would work, optimistic, even _Peter_, who was never optimistic about _anything_ anymore. So Derek agreed, because he couldn't _not_ agree, not with everyone looking at him like he was actually their fucking ticket to the Capitol, and _anarchy_, and actually having _food,_ and not fighting to the death on TV every year and either dying or coming back like Peter, like a fucking _ghost version_ of yourself, all traumatized and hardened and-

So Derek agreed.

Derek agreed, and he did- _stuff_, whatever stuff people liked. He wasn't _stupid_, he knew what he looked like, what he was good for. And Kate fell for it, fell for _him_, and they were fucking _in_. She told Derek stuff, what he needed to know, he didn't even have to sneak around like he'd planned with Mom and Dad, with Peter, who had been to the Capitol and actually knew what it looked like.

But.

The thing is.

The thing is she wasn't _like_ her father. She wasn't like President Argent, she _hated _him. Against his chest, she whispered about how she'd like nothing better than to see the whole Capitol go down in _flames_. Kate was- she _got it_, okay, she_ understood_. Him, and his family, what they wanted, what they were planning, she wanted it too. He held her tight and stroked her hair and she told him she wished they could just end the stupid Games right now. That if his name ever got picked, she'd _die_.

Because- because she _loved_ him.

And Derek felt like the biggest sack of shit in the world, because he was screwing with her, and she _loved_ him. Really, actually-

It all came out in a rush, after too much quiet, guilt spinning in his belly until he was dizzy and felt worse than the time there was no food for a week and two days and everyone was just waiting to die. He'd told Kate about that. He told her about _everything, _about being dirt poor and actually eating _dirt_ when there wasn't anything else, when there wasn't water. About watching Peter go off to the Games, watching him compete, killing all those other kids, coming back so broken Derek's not sure he wouldn't've been better off _dead_. About the Reaping, every year, how terrified everyone is for _months _beforehand. How terrified everyone is _all the time._

And she listened, really listened, and she said, "Oh, _Derek_," and she hugged him, and in his ear she promised she would make things right, make them _pay_, and he took a shaky breath and _told _her.

And her face went hard, and she stiffened under him, arms tightening around his ribs in a vise grip. And his heart was in his throat, and he didn't _understand_, and then she snarled, "_I knew it_," and he stopped breathing.

No.

No, she couldn't-

No, she _loved _him.

But not as much, not as much as she loved killing his family, making them _examples_, making Derek _watch_.

* * *

Mom was first. She was trying to be brave, trying to keep to the message even as they cut her tongue out. They _cut her tongue out_, and Derek _howled_, scratched kicked bit at the men holding him back, screamed, "_Mom!_" until he was hoarse, until he couldn't scream for sobbing.

Then they set her on fire.

And then she was screaming, formless screams, and Derek was shuddering, face stiff with tears, the men had to hold him up, one on either side of him, holding him still, and someone was screaming with her, _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, stop it, STOP IT! Put her out! Put her OU-OUT!_

And that someone was him.

Dad was next, and Derek wasn't even fighting anymore, wasn't even trying to get away. He just stood there limply, knees weak, numb and freezing and sweat-stained, suspended by human handcuffs, and he stared at the ground, blinking hard, hating himself more than he'd ever hated anything or anyone, and Dad wasn't making any show of bravado, he was scared, and a lump swelled in Derek's throat.

"What did you say?" Dad asked, almost kindly, and Derek started sobbing again, started hiccuping apologies until he couldn't breathe. Started saying, "Dad... Dad... I didn't- I thought- I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, oh my _god_..."

"It's okay," Dad said, and Derek wanted to laugh. It was the _farthest thing from okay_, Mom was- Mom was _gone_, she was _burned alive_, and now- "It's gonna be okay."

And maybe that was what did it, what got Derek to stop crying, to force his face stoic and unmoved, to stop screaming. His fists curled at his sides, tears clung to his eyelashes, but he just _stopped_. Just stopped letting them enjoy this so damn much.

They cut out his tongue, too, even though he didn't say anything, and Derek didn't say anything, and then there was nothing but the whistle of flame, his father's screams, the smell of roasting meat, and the tears sliding silently down Derek's face. That was all there was.

Peter was spared. The champion of the district, the only one from Twelve since the Games began. He didn't even have to watch.

Laura was last, after the kids even. They'd never been particularly close, for siblings, but she was all he had, now, besides Peter. She was still defiant, spiteful, after all of that, seeing all of that. She was a fighter. They could've fought the Capitol, they could've _won_, but Derek had to be an _idiot_ who fucked everything up, who did _this_.

She was eighteen, and she was the only one left, and she was gonna die.

They cut her tongue out, and Derek crumpled, would've crumpled if not for the strong fists still holding him up. He swayed on his feet anyway, shook his head. He couldn't watch that. They couldn't make him watch that.

"I'm sorry," he said. His voice sounded very far away, detached from his body, floating. And then he was begging. "Please," he said, voice high and thin. He sounded thirteen, twelve, eleven. He didn't care. "Anything, I'll do anything. Just let her go." He'd heard of what they did with rebels after they cut their tongues off. They didn't set them on fire, that was new, that was special. That was Kate's special twist. Derek hated Kate almost as much as he hated himself.

Laura didn't have to die. She could be an Avox. She could be something. She didn't have to die. She didn't even do anything.

But neither did the kids, Derek's little brothers, and they didn't care. Aaron, Eli, Damon, ashes. Everyone. Everyone.

Because of him, because he was an _idiot_.

"Please," he said, sounding absolutely pathetic, sniffling and barely standing, bleating out his last chance at hope. "I'll- I'll _compete_, okay, huh? I'll compete in your sick fucking game, I volunteer. Just let her go."

Kate got a wicked gleam in her eye. She was enjoying this, all of this. How could he have ever thought-? It's like she was two different_ people_.

"Deal."

Laura's eyes went wide, and she opened her mouth to speak, found she couldn't, and shook her head violently. Her fingers carved words in the air, two feet high.

_No._

"'No?'" Kate repeated, amused. "He's the reason your whole family is bacon bits. He's the reason you can't say a word ever again."

Derek didn't know what bacon bits were, and he didn't want to. He wanted to go out into that arena and die. _Now_.

Laura shook her head again. Pointed at Kate. Drew letters in the air again.

_You_.

And then, slowly, laboriously, she added, _Not him_. _YOU_.

Pointing to Derek, she continued, eyes wide and fierce, _Not your fault_.

Derek let out a high, pained sound. He needed- he needed her away. Safe. Anything else, he could handle. But she had to make it through. She _had_ to.

Laura was spelling again. Quicker now, getting the hang of it.

_Lethimgo. LETHIMGO._

Derek shook his head. "No, don't-" He looked back at Kate, at her evil, sneering face. "You said we had a deal."

_IVOLUNTEER._

"_No!_" Derek shouted. "No, you can't. I already- Shut up!" He turned to Kate again, frantic. "You said we had a deal!"

Kate smirked. "I got a better offer, honey." She smiled, baring all her teeth. "Big sister here's got herself a booked spot in the 73rd annual Hunger Games."

"No," Derek said, still shaking his head. The world was fuzzy at the edges. "I volunteer! I _volunteer_!"

"Oh, _Derek_," Kate purred, mock-sympathetic. Derek's stomach turned. "Don't worry. You'll have a ringside seat."

* * *

Laura made it to the top three before someone from Seven cut her in half. Fucking- _Cut her in half_. The cannon sounded, and that was it.

Derek watched the Games in the Capitol's best screening room, next to none other than President Argent himself. Kate kept a cold grip on his wrist, stopped him from standing up, from covering his eyes.

Derek didn't want to say anything. Didn't want to give them the satisfaction.

It came out anyway, when they turned to stare at him, his ass numb in the stupid, fancy chair, watching his sister's death on the instant replay, blinking furiously. When Kate saw the look on his face, how fucking devastated he was, and let out a little amused giggle.

"You psychotic _bitch_," he spat, glaring at her. "You get off on this, don't you? Both of you. You _sick fucks_."

They just stared at him.

"So what now, huh?" he challenged. He was full up on adrenaline, nothing left to lose. "You gonna kill me, or just admire my amazing physique?"

President Argent's voice, when Derek first heard it this close, was rattling and rumbling and overly dramatic. "No, Derek. You, my boy, are going back home."

Derek's eyes narrowed. Despite himself, he said, "I don't understand."

"You've learned your lesson, I'm sure. There's no use lingering on this... tragic situation any longer."

"Tragic situation, my _ass_," Derek seethed. "You murdered my whole family."

"I think you'll find that they were the cause of their own unfortunate ends," Argent said calmly. "There must be order, son. Without order, where would we be?"

"You'd be dead," Derek snarled, shaking. "We'd cut off your head and have a fucking parade with it on the fucking Capitol flag."

"Ah, ah," Argent tutted, wagging his finger in warning. "We wouldn't want your rogue tongue cut out, now, would we?"

"I don't give a-"

"Or Peter's." Argent hummed, content, as Derek froze.

"You can't- He didn't do anything!"

"I think you'll find," Argent said, standing up and hulking over Derek's chair, inches from Derek's face, breath hot and sour on his skin, "that I can do anything I damn well please, Derek Hale."

And then he reeled his arm back and punched Derek in the face.

* * *

For the first few days back in District 12, Derek just- was.

Peter, still living in his fancy house in the Victor's Village, wanted nothing to do to do with him. Derek couldn't blame him.

The bruise on his cheek faded, after a while. The anger in his gut didn't, but he wasn't doing much of anything anymore. Someone, Argents probably, had burned down his house, but he couldn't summon up the strength to sweep away the ashes and rebuild.

Instead, he lay down in the corner, where two unsteady walls still met, and curled as small as he could, and slept.

* * *

Time passed...

It got lighter, then darker, than lighter again. It didn't much matter to Derek. Nothing did, really.

He was tired, he was always tired, he woke up tired and closed his eyes again. There was nothing he could do, no one he could fight, so he didn't stand, didn't get up, didn't even bother.

He was hungry, sometimes, but he hardly noticed. Mostly he was empty, exhausted, _done_. Mostly he was the walking dead, Peter back from the Games.

Except Peter never had a choice. And Peter, Peter _won_. Derek lost. He just lost everything.

Then there were the nightmares. Making it impossible to sleep, impossible to breathe.

And then one day his stomach hurt so bad he thought he was dying, and he didn't really care, but some instinct took hold of him, sent him stumbling to the market, from house to house. Anything, he just needed to eat something, then he could go back to being a living ghost again.

Pointless, he was pointless.

He passed out, somewhere between the market and the ashes he called home, stomach empty and digesting itself, and was sure that was the end.

_How anticlimactic_, he thought idly as he hit the ground.

* * *

But that isn't the end.

He wakes up on a bed of straw in a house. All four walls intact, ceiling and everything. There's the forgotten-but-rushing-back smell of fresh baked bread all around him, and an unfamiliar man with his back to Derek, pulling long, golden-brown loaves out of the oven. Fresh bread. Only one person outside of the Victor's Village can produce fresh bread.

Old Man Deaton, the district baker.

Derek's parents managed to scrape together some money to pay for bread, sometimes. But never whole loaves. And never fresh.

For the first time in a long time, his mouth waters, imagining it.

He's very weak, and his head is pounding, but when Old Man Deaton turns around, he sits up as best as he can. His stomach lurches, and he suppresses the urge to vomit.

"Derek," Old Man Deaton says pleasantly. "You're awake."

Derek squints, confused. "How-?" He's very lightheaded. His question leaves his head, floats around for a few seconds before coming back to him. "Uh, how do you know my name?"

"I know everything that happens in this district, Derek," Old Man Deaton says. "Your family..."

Derek gags; his head swims. "Don't," he gasps, palms clapped over his mouth, around the back of his head. "Just... Don't." He remembers the bread, remembers his manners. "Please."

Old Man Deaton nods, his eyes dark, and Derek remembers the stories about him. How all of his family were killed in the first Rebellion, the one that got the Games started in the first place. How he's been on his own ever since, baking bread and sometimes, when he can get the right kind of sugar, the kind that isn't cut with sawdust, cakes. He's the district legend, the oldest memory anyone has of anything. People die too young here to keep history. To do much of anything. Old Man Deaton, people say, trades bread for a story, if it's good enough, true enough. The kinds Derek used to tell- to tell his kid siblings, those weren't any good, weren't worth anything. He tried, when they were starving, they were always starving, tried to wrack his brains for anything good, anything worth remembering, and came up blank. A disappointment, again. Derek's only ever been good at one thing, and with- with the Argents, he fucked that up too.

But he has a story _now_. He has a story that won't shut up. Won't stay locked up, pushed down where he puts it.

That must be why Old Man Deaton found him.

He doesn't want to talk about it. About any of it. But he's starving, and he's angry, and he wants to eat, and rant, and he wants to know what happened to Old Man Deaton's family. Wants to know what he did, afterwards, a kid alone for seventy-four years, how he's still baking bread, so calm, not ripping himself to pieces, not throwing everything he owns against the wall just to watch it break. Derek needs to know how he did, how he does that. If he's going to live another day, he needs to know that.

So he blinks, tries to clear his vision, and he clears his throat, and he says, "I've, uh, got- I've got a story for you."

Old Man Deaton smiles slightly, takes a loaf from the pan, and breaks it in half. Derek takes it with shaking hands. It's still so hot he has to juggle it between his hands, and it smells amazing. Nothing like the cold, gray, gritty, tasteless food of the district; not like the odd, bright-colored, plastic food of the the Capitol. This is the best thing he can remember eating, and he makes a point to remember the few bright spots, the rare tastes of something that hasn't had all the flavor boiled out of it. There was an orange, when he was ten, Peter's gift from his win, a souvenir of the Capitol. It was a whole fruit bowl, apples and oranges and pears in elaborate crystal, but most was traded for firewood, for new shoes, for some tarp to cover the draft in the wall. The rest was split with the whole family. Segments of bright juicy orange were passed around; a pear became jam, spread thinly on stale bread, and mash for Aaron, still teething back then; the apple went to Grandma Hale, who had been dreaming of apples for as long as Derek could remember. It didn't stop her dying later that year, but the sound as she bit down on the fruit was kind of gratifying in a vicarious sort of way, and she deserved it more than anyone else did. She was the one who masterminded the plan, the plan Derek fucked up so well. Derek likes to think, bitterly, that she'd be proud of his achievements as an above and beyond fuck-up. They always said he wasn't good for anything but looking pretty. Turns out he can get his whole family murdered, too.

He bites down. His teeth sink through the light, crispy crust into warm, chewy dough, and it's good enough to put tears in his eyes. It's good enough to remind him that he doesn't deserve it, that it should be Laura here, Mom, Dad, the kids, any of them, all of them. Not him, that's for sure. But he's the one who's here. He's the one who's left. So he fills his mouth with warm bread, and he tries to figure out how to start.


End file.
